


Phil's Bar

by clintnatalias



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Phil owns a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24386635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintnatalias/pseuds/clintnatalias
Summary: As Phil makes his way to the bar, with orders most likely, Clint notices Steve—previously the captain of his unit—walking through the door.More interestingly, he notices the gorgeous redhead that comes in with him.“Clint, stop drooling and give me two beers and a martini,” Phil’s voice breaks the spell and, reluctantly, he does his job.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Melinda May, Clint Barton & Phil Coulson, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Phil Coulson/Melinda May, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Phil's Bar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andsocanshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsocanshe/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Alyssa! Here it is, after three-ish years, Phil's Bar has finally seen the light of day and I hope I did our ramblings justice.

Clint doesn’t understand why Phil is so nervous about the whole thing; if anyone can carry out a bar’s (re)opening night without a hitch it’s certainly that man. Alas, no matter how much he or Melinda tries to reassure him he still looks like he’s going to have a conniption any minute now.

The place looks as good as new (or he assumes so since when Phil bought it the roof was one strong sneeze from caving in and the floorboards were rotten) and it should since they (mostly Clint) spent the summer fixing it up. He’d been happy to have something to keep his hands busy and his mind off things after being discharged from his last deployment because of hearing damage.

He shakes the thoughts out of his head as he makes his way behind the bar, pouring out four shots. “Five minutes to open, I think it’s time for a little celebration,” he calls out, earning him amused frowns from Phil and Maria. 

“Isn’t this a little premature? We haven’t sold a single drink yet,” Phil says, still looking like he’s being tortured where he stands.

Melinda walks out of the backroom fighting a smile so her husband won’t see. “Just take the shot. Might help your mood,” she says, reaching for one herself.

Clint grins and lifts his own, but Maria takes hers and downs it before he can utter a single word to enthuse the small team. His sister-in-law takes pity on him and at least clinks the glass against his before drinking it. He gives an appreciative nod and turns to Phil expectantly. 

“You can’t let your brother hanging. It’s illegal.” Though he doesn’t seem amused, nor does he seem to believe his totally not bullshit claim, he takes the shot and downs it with a grimace, Clint following shortly after. “That’s what I’m talking about. I’ll put on some music, let’s get some life in this place,” he says as he makes his way to the jukebox.

Maria is already opening the front door. “Clint, I swear, if you only play Springsteen I’m going to cockblock you the entire night.”

“Woah, what’s with the hate? Do you want another shot?”  _ Born to Run _ starts playing as he rejoins her behind the bar and waits for people to start filing in. They’d told all their friends about the opening and had instructed them to tell their own friends as well, so they were—hopefully—expecting a good turnout. Clint was just praying his rusty bartender skills from college would be enough. 

He hates to admit he lets out a sigh of relief when he finally sees familiar faces trickle in, accompanied by strangers to fill out the place. He spots Stark, the owner of the cafe down the street, by Pepper’s side, who seems to be effusively congratulating Phil for the event. Rhodes joins them a little while later, greeting him from afar with a wave. As Phil makes his way to the bar, with their orders most likely, he notices Steve—previously the captain of his unit—walking through the door.

More interestingly, he notices the gorgeous redhead that comes in with him. 

“Clint, stop drooling and give me two beers and a martini,” Phil’s voice breaks the spell and, reluctantly, he does his job.

He loses sight of the redhead in the bustle of serving drinks to the crowd but as everyone settles and groups all have their drinks he spots her again, still by Steve’s side. He didn’t know he was dating someone. She doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone, even as the blond talks animatedly with Rhodes and Pepper.

As his brother returns a couple of empty bottles, he leans over. “Who's the redhead with Steve?” He stage-whispers because an actual whisper would get lost in the noise of the room. Phil takes one glance at the table and then frowns at him. 

“His sister. Natasha. Thought you had met her.”

It’s with great effort that Clint keeps his jaw from hitting the floor at the new information. The Natasha he knew, from a folded up picture Steve kept in his personal effects while on tour, was a gangly teenager with jet black hair in her high school graduation robes with a permanently sour expression. Certainly not the woman with fiery red hair and curves that wouldn’t be out of place in a sports magazine. Upon closer inspection, though, he can make out the traces of the sour expression in her current disinterested one. 

He’s most definitely not subtle when he asks Maria to take care of an order when the redhead is coming up to them, but he’s suffered worse than eye-rolls thrown his way.

“You here by your lonesome?” He asks nonchalantly, his midwestern twang a little pronounced as he puts on his best farm boy charm—no matter that he hasn’t set foot on an inch of farmland in the better part of a decade.

She turns to him and watches for a moment, the corners of her green eyes gathering as she purses her lips. It almost looks like a smile but he can’t quite tell. “I’m here with my brother because he dragged me along. Are you gonna ask me what I want or no?” She asks evenly, meeting his eyes. 

His brain takes a little too long to realize she’s referring to her drink and he chuckles in an effort to hide it. “I bet I can guess what you're going to order,” he says, with maybe a little too much confidence, but she seems interested.

“I’ll take that bet. If you get it wrong, you take care of my tab tonight,” she says, and he can already tell she has more confidence in herself in one fingernail than he does in his entire body, and he’s a cocky son of a bitch by all intents and purposes. Oh, Clint  _ likes  _ her already. 

“Alright. If I win, I get your number.” This time he catches the smile before she bites it back.

“You don’t even know my name,” she says, but it’s the extent of her argument.

He wipes his hand on his trusty towel and offers it to her. “Clint Barton, pleasure to meet you.”

She takes his hand firmly and shakes it once, her eyes never leaving his. “Natasha Romanoff. I’m sure it is.” He leans in instead of letting go, narrowing his eyes as he makes a show of guessing her drink. She lifts her eyebrow but doesn’t argue his methods.

“You look like… a tequila sunrise gal to me. You get the kick from the tequila, a little acidity from the orange juice and a hint of sweet from the grenadine and the cherry.”

Natasha leans ever closer, her elbows braced on the bar, and gives him the sharpest smirk he's ever seen—you could cut glass with it. 

He’s won and she knows it. He’s already smiling when she speaks up. 

“Two fingers of vodka. Neat. But I’ll take you up on the cherry.” She finally drops his hand unceremoniously and sits back on the stool, her head tilted to the side as she enjoys the look on his face.

He comes back to his body a moment later and nods, fulfilling the request, a maraschino cherry skewered on a toothpick and balanced on the edge of the glass so it won’t tarnish the liquid below.

She still has that wicked smirk when she stands, lifting her glass in thanks before smoothly making her way back to her table.

“I think I’m in love,” he says, added sigh for effect included.

“Congratulations, I don’t care. I need another extra dirty martini,” Maria says as she walks up to him with a tray of empty glasses.

He gets lost doing his actual job, the mischievous redhead unfortunately relegated to the back of his mind as he fulfills requests left and right. 

Steve comes up to the counter during a lull to return to two empty beer bottles and greets him with his signature good boy smile. “Hey. Two more, please. And a vodka—”

“Neat.”

“You finally meet Natasha?”

Clint pops open the bottles and snots. “I did, alright. Couldn’t believe it at first, last you showed me she had black hair.”

Steve laughs, even though he didn’t say anything funny. Going off the flush on his cheeks, he's had a few. “Yeah. Couldn’t get anything more recent in time before the tour, she was off on a trip through Eastern Europe when I shipped out.”

“I take it that's where she picked up her vodka proclivities?” He asks, glancing at the back, where the subject of their conversation sits. She's looking straight at him. 

It feels like a jolt of electricity runs through him, but Steve remains oblivious. 

“No, I think liking vodka is just in her genes, you know? Being Russian and all.” Clint makes a non-committal sound as he hands out a couple more beers and sneaks a sip of water.

He remembers the stories the captain had told him when they were killing time on base, how she was in the foster home he was sent to, how Nick eventually adopted both of them. Fairly similar to his own story, how Julie and Robert took him and Barney in when he was nine and eventually adopted him as their own. Definitely part of why they got along so easy, ranks be damned. He has no doubts the Coulsons would have done the same for his brother—had he stayed.

“Just like the corniness is ingrained in you,” the blond continues, clearly amused. “Can’t take Iowa out of the boy.”

“Mmm, you think you’re so funny, Rogers.” He snaps the towel and lays it over his shoulder, leaning back with arms crossed as he tries to act casual. “So, uh, your si—Natasha. She seeing anyone?” He asks, and it certainly isn't his best effort. He hopes the slight inebriation of the man in front of him will help him out.

Steve frowns a little, though rather than angry he seems to be thinking hard about the answer. “You know, I don’t think so. She’s always kept to herself, did her whole trip solo. Haven’t seen her interested in anyone for a bit.”

A man hollers Steve's name and both turn before he finally takes the beers and bows out. Not that Clint sees any of it, too preoccupied with holding a particular redhead’s gaze from across the room. 

She’s unwavering, almost detached, but she allows herself to smile. Her mouth is moving but her lips are closed and he can’t figure out what the hell she's doing. 

It’s not until they’re closing that he spots a napkin with a lipstick impression and a neatly tied cherry stem lying on it.

He’s not so sure he was joking when he told Maria he was in love just a few hours earlier. 


End file.
